


I'm in Paris with the Slightest Thing You Do

by ryssabeth



Series: In Paris with You [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is his loudest delcaration--but it's barely above a whisper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm in Paris with the Slightest Thing You Do

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the poem "In Paris with You" by James Fenton. Credit to enjolrassss.tumblr.com for the headcanon that inspired this.

This is his loudest declaration.

And yet it barely breeches the barrier between silence and a whisper.

Of course, this was completely intended—this confession, this _reference_ , this pronouncement is supposed to remain a secret and never be seen by any eyes but his own. However, the tattoo that started this mess is visible on Enjolras’ left wrist, swirling script wrapped around the bones there like a bracelet.

He’s gotten used to it now—but when he had come to Bahorel’s flat three mornings ago (a Saturday, and Grantaire had been there because _finals_ and because Jehan and Courfeyrac care very much for studying) he had been _livid_.

( _“It was your autonomous decision!”_ Marius had defended himself and Courfeyrac with hands raised up for protection.

 _“Yes you’re a big fan of autonomy,”_ Courfeyrac had supplied, safe with Marius between him and the fury of the Sun.

_“I was drunk.”_

And Grantaire—he’s an expert on this— _“An autonomous decision on your part as well!”_ He doesn’t say that he should be grateful he’s not fallen past the point of free-will against the bottle. The conversation was too humourous for that.)

From here, perched on a desktop near the back of the small clubroom, he can barely read Enjolras’ tattoo—especially from the way he’s gesturing continuously (it’s more from excitement than irritation, because this little activism group has gotten the proper papers to sell T-shirts on the university’s campus, thrilling stuff).

But he knows what it says by now because he knows the poem from which it comes. And he has a line wrapped around his own ankle.

 _Ne parlons pas de l’amour. Parlons de Paris,_ Enjolras’ tattoo reads. (Let’s not talk of love. Let’s talk of Paris.)

The choice of a tattoo of words is not surprising for Enjolras (sober, or otherwise). Words are his specialty, his forte, and Grantaire imagines that Courfeyrac suggested the poem and Marius said _ah, look, someone feels the same about France as you do!_ (Neither of them, however, fess up to that story.)

The liquor, Grantaire also guesses, had him ignore the _rest_ of the poem (which Jehan found to be _hilarious_ but has yet to mention it to anyone but Grantaire himself).

But Grantaire had not ignored it and had decided to immortalise the idea of the poem on his right ankle. Opposites, and all that.

 _Je suis à Paris avec la moindre chose que vous faites_ , his says. (I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.) It’s in terms that Enjolras would understand—if he were to ever see it. But he won’t, probably, in this lifetime. Or any lifetime. At all.

(Because Grantaire’s tattoo had also been a mistake—but he has less of an excuse. Yes, he was drunk, as usual. But since when has that impaired his judgment enough to get a _tattoo_? Never. Until now. That had less to do with the liquor and more to do with the heart.

What a traitorous organ.)

“Are you even paying attention?” An exasperated voice cuts into his thoughts (which had been leaning toward _how do you get a heart to be loyal for once, really?_ ).

Grantaire looks away from the window and smiles. “Sure was. You were saying something inane and idealistic and I just couldn’t think of anything witty to say and opted not to say anything at all.”

Enjolras can’t manage to look angry. He hasn’t managed that for—weeks, maybe. In fact, his lips wind upward and he shakes his head. “That’s a first for you.”

“Sometimes even drunk dogs can learn new tricks.”

( _I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do._ )

It is then that Grantaire decides he could use a beer or six.

-

Thursday, Grantaire skips class. He sleeps in, sleeps long, and is only awoken by the most vicious hangover he’s had since he was sixteen.

The headache is confusing, because it’s in time with a beat that makes no sense. Until. He sits up, is blinded by the light ( _forgot to shut the blinds again_ ), and realises that, ah, yes, someone is knocking on the door to his flat.

He stumbles out of bed (with a groan) and the floorboards are cold on the soles of his feet. He fumbles with the lock, the deadbolt, and then the doorknob, because he’s already taken this long. Might as well run the entire race if he’s started at all.

Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan push in (literally, _literally_ push into his home), and they make no comment about the few bottles on the windowsills and tables. It’s less than it usually is. It seems that everyone is aware that he’s trying—and if they speak of it, it might shatter. Grantaire understands that fear. Feels it himself, most days.

“We need you to do something for us.”

With a long-suffering sigh he listens, grabbing the wastebin from the kitchen and tossing bottles in it as he goes along, occasionally stepping onto a chair to reach for ones on top of bookcases or shelving (and he cannot for the life of him remember how most of them got to these places).

Design T-shirts—with wit, if he wants to, but a design would be good too. Enjolras is too busy and Jehan only writes poetry—which is not what we want. _We want prose!_ They say, and well. Grantaire might skip his studies, but he does know a lot of prose.

If only to impress.

He’s about to tell them _fine, whatever you need_ , but one of them is reaching for the hem of his sweatpants—and looking down from the chair where he’s reaching for an empty bottle of wine atop the kitchen cabinets, it’s Jehan, nosy son of a—

“What’s this?”

Grantaire tugs his foot away, draping the sweatpants back over the tattoo. “Nothing. I was drunk.”

The three of them look at him from different points in the kitchen. And he ignores them. “Did it hurt?” Jehan asks quietly and Grantaire snorts, looking down upon them with a grin, grabbing for a beer bottle just out of reach.

“What? Are you asking preemptively about when I fall from this chair because I am only two-thirds sober and reaching for bottles while also answering obnoxious questions? Because I imagine that yes, it’ll hurt like a bitch.”

Jehan laughs—though it doesn’t look like he wants to, but Grantaire has more charm than reason often enough and everyone ends up in giggles by the time Grantaire gets down from the chair and hides his tattoo from sight.

-

He has three tentative designs when he meets with the _A.B.C Revolutionary Society_ on Friday, handing the sketches over to Enjolras (and he is pleasantly surprised when he doesn’t immediately begin berating them, and actually hums in approval over one).

It’s looking like it might be a good day—perhaps two bottles of beer and half a bottle of bourbon—and Grantaire takes a seat at a desk (or, rather, atop it, he prefers that to chairs), and it is then that the day jumps from _good_ to _abort mission, go back to sleep_.

“Have you seen Grantaire’s tattoo?” Feuilly asks, just before Enjolras opens his mouth to speak—and it ends up hanging there in surprise. Grantaire is making no judgments here ( _that is a lie_ ), but he thinks he sees money change hands between Feuilly and Jehan.

“Tattoo?” Enjolras repeats. He can feel eyes all over him, Eponine is the strongest, drilling into the back of his skull. He can’t tell if the headache sweeping from the back of his head is related to alcohol, the lack thereof, or panic.

“Yep,” Jehan chimes. “On his right ankle. Very dainty.”

An embarrassed flush rushes down his neck toward his spine and his sketches are placed on the table. Everyone dismisses themselves, one by one ( _ah there is this thing, with Cosette; oh I have a project due; things to write, people to see; sorry Grantaire_ —at least Courfeyrac pities him. He’ll leave his flat to Courfeyrac when he inevitably dies of shame).

“A _tattoo_?” Enjolras says again (Jehan is a traitor and it really shouldn’t surprise him since he writes about matters of the heart—the traitor-organ), this time with a tone of almost-laughter, and that brings Grantaire’s eyes up from the classroom-common carpet. “Let’s see.”

“No!” Grantaire jumps of the table when Enjolras takes a step forward, and the embarrassment moves from his neck to his cheeks. “I mean—I was drunk. It’s stupid. Unintelligible even.”

A blonde brow is arched, and he cocks his head, because _that is a terrible answer_. “You can always get it removed, but not before I see this humiliating thing. Come on.”

 _No_ , his brain says.

 _All right_ , says the rest of him.

He props his right foot against the edge of the table, rolling up the leg of his jeans, pushing the tongue of his shoe out of the way. Enjolras tilts his head, curls brushing against his skin, and he reads the lilting script, pacing slowly so as to read the whole thing.

When he does, he stops, and coughs. Once.

“Is this a joke?” He asks.

“I was drunk,” Grantaire rolls the fabric back over the tattoo.

Incredulity masks Enjolras’ face for a second before he rests his thigh against the table. He’s trying to keep Grantaire looking at him—which is something he’d really rather not at all do. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I thought it would be funny,” a good cover, a loud noise to drown out the whisper of his heart. Yes. Splendid. “And Jehan thought it was so. Haha?”

Enjolras is always quick to take Grantaire’s explanations ( _“I’ll never understand the way you work”_ ) but now—it’s as if something has changed when Grantaire wasn’t looking. When he was drunk or blind or. Something. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

And with that, Grantaire abandons the room.

-

He also doesn’t leave his flat that weekend.

-

On Monday, he arrives at school only for the meeting and only because Marius said it would be absolute chaos—and Grantaire loves that. He can just sit quietly in the back and pretend he was never there at all. (He only garners attention when he speaks—and really that isn’t necessary, you know.)

It turns out that everyone— _everyone—_ he knows is a traitor. A betrayer of trust and confidence.

Because the meeting room is empty except for Enjolras, who looks as relaxed as can be—for once, in his life—standing near the window that gives an excellent view of the art building at the other end of the campus.

“Sorry—I thought there was going to be terror and suffering, I should just—“ — _back out, go home, you were never supposed to see that_.

“France—“ Enjolras says quickly, and _here we are_. Here we go—Grantaire can deal with this, letting the door shut behind him, as Enjolras walks forward, his hands tucked into his pockets. (Which is something he only does when he cannot decide what to do with his hands. That had taken some learning to understand.) “France is all well and good, you know. And deserving of strength and freedom and her people are worthy of these things, as a whole.”

“Going about getting that is your _issue_ , I keep saying, because tyrants aren’t needed for oppression—“

“— _but_ ,” Enjolras presses on, his eyes hardening marginally at the interruption, “but Paris is fine too.”

“And yep, there you go. You’ve lost me.”

He sighs, musses his hair, and stands before Grantaire, rolling his shoulders absently. “Paris is good—I think Paris is wonderful. As long as you—are in Paris. As long as we are in Paris together.”

All right.

 _All right_ but.

“What has that got to do with France or anything or—“ Grantaire gestures to the room.

(Because no.

Because _no._ )

“Would you like to go out?” The conversation shifts.

He isn’t sure if that stings because he’s _trying_ ( _is he teasing me?_ ) or instills pride because Enjolras has faith in him to go out drinking. “I’m—trying not to drink in public. At the moment. You know—“

“That isn’t what I meant.” Frustration sharpens the edges of his words. He taps the toe of his trainer against the floor and tries again. “Would you like to go out. With me. Because I think I could like Paris _very much_ if you would show me it properly.” He swallows and his gaze moves from Grantaire’s cheek to the doorknob. “Am I embarrassing you?” _Taptaptap_ goes his toes against the floor. “I’m in Paris with you.”

Grantaire is going to choke. He’s going to choke and die and at the very least it won’t be because he threw up and drowned in it, it won’t be his liver, it’ll be this man before him. It will be. He can taste it.

“Yes,” he says, past the fact that he cannot breathe. “I would like to go out with you. I—“ he laughs. It’s hysterics. Surprise. _Shock_. “I’m in Paris with everything you do.”

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s right hand in his left, and he can read the tattoo again.

( _Let’s not talk of love. Let’s talk of Paris._ )

-

He doesn’t know when they start kissing.

But Grantaire is in Paris with that too.


End file.
